


Hope You Guess My Name

by ennta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, M/M, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, but show elements will pop up here and there, midwestern gothic, written with book!renly and book!loras in mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-11-22 08:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennta/pseuds/ennta
Summary: On a road trip across Westeros, Renly has a chance meeting with a beautiful young man and finds himself dragged into a little town's dark present and even darker past.





	1. Pleased to Meet You, Too

Towns like Cider Hall make Renly uneasy; when the two-lane country highways with their shimmering cracked pavement give way to broad unhurried main streets, to country store facades pressed close and built high, Renly feels as though he's stepped back in time. Ashford Gas and Sundries rises out of the dusty summer like a postcard of modernity in a Midwestern pastiche, the old brick building an anachronism tied to the lonely gas pump Renly noses his Prius up to. In towns like these he's ridiculously wary, as though his rainbow flag bumper sticker will draw an angry mob; he knows he's stereotyping, but there are wary faces pressed to the gas station’s broad, dirty windows, and Renly sighs as he kills the ignition.

The air hangs thick with humidity, the afternoon sun a force of its own on Renly's shoulders as he rounds the car to swipe his card at the pump. He sighs again at the weathered note taped over the card reader: **CASH ONLY PAY INSIDE** it reads in faded handwritten letters. Renly reaches for the wallet tucked in the back pocket of his jeans and starts for the door, wondering if the people of Cider Hall--population two hundred--really have nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon than sit around and wait for an unsuspecting city slicker to roll into town.

There's a bell on the door to announce Renly's entrance, but the four pairs of eyes trained on him don't need the alert. The man behind the counter gives Renly a stiff nod, his grey eyes sunken in the lined, tanned face Renly has come to recognize as the marker of a life spent fighting the emptiness and elements. Something's different in this man's face, though, and in the way he holds himself, hunched forward, shoulders tense, fingers gripping the counter as Renly approaches.

Renly turns on his brightest grin and shifts to fully face the store owner. He can still feel eyes boring into him as he fumbles two twenties out of his wallet and slides them across the counter.

“Can I get thirty on pump--” Renly remembers there's only one pump in the lot and tries again, widening his smile to play off his mistake. “Thirty on the only game in town,” he tries.

The shopkeeper grunts and takes the money, making a show of inspecting the bills and punching Renly's order into the ancient cash register. The register chimes shrill and jarring as the man stabs at it with gnarled fingers. Renly suppresses the urge to whistle nonchalantly. Instead he studies the ceiling, the rack of cigarettes and chew behind the counter, the chipped linoleum at his feet. He considers picking up an energy drink from the coolers along the back wall, but he can still feel dark stares capturing his every twitch.

The shopkeeper hands over Renly's change and a receipt with another grunt; Renly stuffs both into his wallet, his smile starting to wane, and his hand is on the door when the silence finally breaks.

“You'll wanna be careful out there,” a gravelly voice intones, and Renly turns to see a man even older than the shopkeeper sauntering towards him. “Byrne and Gladys found Farmer Lannister bludgeoned in his barn a few days back. Before that it was Brother Tytos, shot behind his shed.”

Renly frowns, looking from the speaker to the shopkeeper and back again, searching for a glint of levity, some sign that this is a god-awful Midwestern prank. He finds nothing but clenched jaws and downturned lips. 

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Renly manages. “I'm not sticking around though. I'm hoping to get to Horn Hill tonight.”

The shopkeeper snorts and tilts one shoulder in a shrug. “Pays to be careful. A fella like you--” His eyes rake over Renly's crisp red Converse, his tailored dark jeans, the expensive grey dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. “--a fella like you could get in a lot of trouble round here. If you stay more than a night, mind whose company you keep."

Renly's neck prickles under the man's scrutiny and he forces himself to smile weakly. “Thanks for the warning,” he offers, and steps back out into the sloppy heat. There's a chill up his spine that even ninety-seven degrees doesn't dissipate, and Renly crosses the lot to his car as quickly as he can without seeming jumpy. He pumps his gas, willing the old equipment to work faster, and when he allows himself a glance over his shoulder he's still being tracked by four pairs of cold, steady eyes.


	2. The Wrong Turn at the Wrong Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renly stops for a picnic by a pond, where a chance encounter with a stranger alters the course of his trip.

The outskirts of Cider Hall grow small in Renly's rear view mirror; with the outlying houses and trailers and that godforsaken gas station behind him, the clear blue sky framing acres of farmland ahead, Renly turns the radio up and drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He loves the open road, the feeling of freedom he only ever gets from the emptiness bridging cities, the in-between where the sun and wind and earth loom large enough to dominate and envelop wandering souls. Out here it doesn’t matter that his brothers think him a joke, and it’s easy to give his bitterness up to the world around him. Renly sings along to an old country song, making up lyrics he doesn't know, pushing his car beyond the speed limit and rolling a window down to let the breeze tug at his ponytail.

He's so preoccupied that he nearly misses the sign on the side of the road, its chipped white letters on a reflective green rectangle informing Renly that the next town worth the description is sixty miles further on.

Renly's stomach growls and he slows down, shooting a glance at the cooler in the passenger seat. He has a few sandwiches tucked away and suddenly the idea of an impromptu picnic under the shade of a big tree has Renly scanning the side of the road for a gravel path to turn down.

He finds one a few miles on, narrow and overgrown down the middle, leading between two halves of an open wooden gate so eaten up by crawling greenery that Renly can't imagine they've closed to keep anyone out in decades. It's somehow welcoming in its disrepair, evidence of a permanence that refuses to lose itself completely to time.

Renly slows to a crawl on the bumpy road, grimacing at the dust his tires kick up and through the window. The road, such as it is, cuts straight through a field of high prairie grass and winds through a strand of trees. When Renly drives beneath them the world softens, the harsh light of the sun muted and filtered across Renly's windshield in delicate webs of light. Just beyond the trees stretches a small open meadow, grass and flowers tangling on the edges of a pond at its edge, and Renly carefully guides his car off the narrow drive and parks beside a tree.

A welcome breeze blows off the pond and Renly pauses to take in the scenery as he unbuttons his shirt and spreads it at the base of the tree for a makeshift picnic blanket. He grabs the cooler from his car and hums to himself as he sets out his lunch: a turkey sandwich on rye and a cold soda glistening with condensation. Then, after a moment of deliberation, a can of beer. Renly pops the tab on the beer and takes a long swig, then props the can against his crossed legs and stretches his arms up towards the tree’s sprawling canopy.

He sighs contentedly as his shoulders pop, the tension of hours cooped up in a car fading as the sun soaks through his skin. The smell of flowers and the cool damp of the pond mingle with the sound of birdsong and the rush of wind through leaves, and Renly leans his head back against the tree trunk. He takes a bite of his sandwich and fishes his phone out of his pocket, not surprised when he finds he has no signal; he tosses the phone down on his shirt and makes a mental note to take a few pictures of his idyllic surroundings before he sets off again.

Renly is halfway through his sandwich and a second can of beer, his skin pleasantly warm, his head buzzing in tune with the cicadas that intermittently strike p a chorus, when he hears a rustling from the trees just beyond his parked car. He pauses, setting the sandwich down, and hears a series of cracks like footsteps through forest detritus. Feeling suddenly all too sober, Renly turns toward the sound, his sandwich forgotten and the Cider Hall welcoming committee’s words of warning rushing back to him.

_ bludgeoned to death … shot behind a shed … fella like you could get into a lot of trouble round here ... _

Renly doesn't have time to panic, though, before a young man steps out from the treeline. His face is tan and unlined, his body lithe and compact, and he has a blue t-shirt slung over his shoulder. His face is friendly, his full lips tilting up in a smile, as he raises a hand in greeting. His hair hangs longer than Renly's, tumbling in soft brown curls around his handsome face, and as he comes closer Renly can see curiosity in his big brown eyes.

“I didn't mean to intrude,” Renly offers, scrounging another beer from his cooler and holding it out. “I'm on a road trip and I thought I'd stop for a picnic. I'm Renly Baratheon.”

“Loras Tyrell.” The young man takes the proffered beer and sits across from Renly, mirroring his posture as he pops the tab on the beer can and sips it delicately, lips pursed slightly around the opening. “You've picked the best spot on this farm. Why you're driving through this shit town on a road trip, though, is entirely beyond me.” His eyes shine almost golden in the sunlight, and for a moment Renly is hypnotized by the elegant jut of his jaw and the errant constellations of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the plane of his smooth chest.

“Well." Renly takes a breath, remembering to meet Loras's eyes. “I like the country in small doses. If I'm away from my favorite shops and clubs for very long, though, I get a little stir-crazy.” He swings an arm out to indicate the pond and the fields beyond it. “What about you? Does it get lonely out here?”

Loras’s eyes dart away for just a moment, but when he answers a soft, lazy grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I guess so. But I've lived here all my life.” He points vaguely up the road. “My father and my grandmother, we live in a house a half a mile or so that way. We go into Cider Hall sometimes to get groceries, and Dad’s friends with a few other farmers nearby, but mostly it's just us.” 

That sounds unbearably isolated to Renly, but Loras just watches him with that same measured spark of curiosity. “Where are you driving  _ to _ ?” Loras asks after they've both taken a few more sips of beer.

“I'm going to King’s Landing,” Renly replies, finishing off his sandwich and balling up the plastic wrap. Loras’s feet are bare, and he's sitting so close that the tips of his toes brush Renly's Converse. “I'm starting a job with my oldest brother's political campaign, but I wanted to see the country first. I've got a month to kill before I have to settle down.”

Loras tilts his head to one side. “What's it like in the city? We've got a bar in town, but we don't have any clubs. I wanted to find one for … for my twenty-first, but …” He shrugs, his eyes fixed on something over Renly’s shoulder. “We can’t leave the farm. I mean, it’s hard to find the time, and our car isn’t really up to long trips.”

Renly frowns, trying to imagine a world limited to open skies and waving grasses. He supposes he's just a little drunk, because his heart lurches at the idea of this beautiful boy in front of him living out his life in a cage carefully crafted to look like freedom. That, Renly realizes, is the source of the twinge he feels when he rolls through small towns: the knowledge that despite the abundance of roads, so many of these people will drive so few of them.

“Well,” Renly says, trying to tamp down his sudden melancholy, “the city is messy and crowded and it can be a very frustrating place to live. You live around millions of people but you only really know a few--and anyway, I'm sure a guy like you is going to have at least ten boyfriends no matter where you live.” He mentally crosses his fingers at that, hoping he hasn't misread Loras’s proximity; Renly has never known a straight man to sit so close to him voluntarily, and when Loras blushes at Renly's words, Renly feels a surge of triumph. Deciding to press his luck, he reaches out and hooks a finger around Loras’s thumb.

“And I suppose you have a different boyfriend in every city,” Loras finally volleys back, swinging Renly's hand between them. 

Renly laughs and thinks back to the man he took back to his hotel in Bronzegate; he can't even remember the man's name now, but the sex had been good. “Every other city, maybe. Not really boyfriends, though; I don't suppose it counts if I don't know their names.”

“You know my name,” Loras points out, and he's definitely flirting now; he leans forward and Renly can smell the sun on him, the faint salt of sweat on his skin, and something heady and sweet and musky beneath that. “Does that mean I'm your Cider Hall boyfriend?”

“If you want to be,” Renly offers with a grin. “Although we've only known each other for about ten minutes, and I usually buy my dates a drink before I confer boyfriend status.”

Loras chuckles and holds up his beer can, shaking it playfully in Renly's face before setting it down. “Technically you did buy me a drink.”

Renly smiles lazily. “I did, didn't I? What can I say? I'm a gentleman.” He can't stop staring, and before he can stop himself he pulls his hand from Loras’s to tuck a stray curl behind the young man's ear. 

For a moment Loras looks as though he's considering something, and then he leans forward, his hands coming up to frame Renly's face just before their lips meet. It's a hesitant kiss, chaste and sweet, and when Loras pulls away he's blushing.

“I'm sorry,” Loras murmurs, but his eyes meet Renly's and his gaze is direct, far from apologetic, belying the blush. 

Renly's heart pounds as he tries to decide what to do; on one hand, making out with a boy who just stepped out of the trees seems faintly ridiculous, but Renly knows that under other circumstances--in that club back in Bronzegate, for instance--he would have already been tugging Loras back to a dark corner where they could be alone. Instead of overthinking the situation, he slides forward and cups the side of Loras’s face with his palm; Loras’s eyes flutter as he leans into Renly's touch, and then Renly kisses him, slotting their mouths together, a thrill running through him at the little moan Loras lets out against his lips.

They sit like that for a moment, still and close as the day goes on around them, and then Loras opens his mouth for Renly's tongue and surges forward, his own hands coming up to tangle in Renly's messy hair. There's something wild in the kiss, in the unpracticed way Loras follows Renly's lead, enthusiastic and sure and just a bit sloppy; he reminds Renly of a thunderstorm, of the wind whipping, frantic and directionless, as the clouds roll in. Renly slides his other hand into the hair at the nape of Loras’s neck and guides his head back to deepen the kiss, and the growl Loras lets out thrums between their bodies like the promise of a downpour.

Renly gently pushes Loras back, guiding him to lie in the soft grass so Renly can hover over him, and when Renly pulls away to catch his breath there's a quiet awe on Loras’s face.

“I like this,” Loras whispers, sliding his hands up Renly's chest before settling them back in his hair. He bites down on the corner of his lower lip and Renly leans down to nip at the soft skin where Loras’s jaw meets his ear. Loras moans again and Renly licks a warm line down Loras’s jaw, pausing to tug Loras’s lower lip between his teeth before catching him up in another kiss, this one slow and deep. 

In the back of his mind Renly wonders if Loras has had much experience with this sort of thing; the little gasps he gets out between kisses and the way he arches up against Renly before seeming to collect himself and forcing his body back against the ground make Renly think this is, if not his first time making out with a strange man in the grass beside the pond, then definitely only his second or third.

Renly doesn't know how long they spend curled up together; his head spins and his body moves on instinct, and it feels like hours before he slides his fingers beneath Loras’s waistband and Loras chokes at him to stop.

A little dizzy, Renly does as Loras asks and pulls away. Loras’s breathing is heavy as he sits up and he looks as stunned as Renly feels.

“You shouldn't be here,” Loras whispers quietly enough that he could be talking to himself. But before Renly can worry that he's completely misread the signals Loras had given, Loras smiles at him again. “But I'm glad you are. Would you like to come up to the house for dinner?” His smile goes shy again and Renly's heart starts beating double-time. “And maybe you could stay the night? After all" -- a quick glance at the beer cans -- "you probably shouldn't be driving right now."

Renly runs a hand gently up the curve of Loras’s spine and grins when Loras shivers at the touch. It won't take more than an hour for his buzz to wear off, and dinner will entail meeting Loras’s family; even if he stays the night, Renly's not sure how much privacy they'll get, but then he imagines a warm bed and Loras bare beneath him, eyes shy despite the defiant tilt of his chin, and suddenly nothing else matters.

"I'd love to stay the night," Renly says gallantly, and the sunshine-and-big-sky grin on Loras's face nearly knocks the wind out of him.


	3. Dreams That Never Woke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renly gets to know Loras and his small, sheltered family.

The driveway Loras points Renly down ends at the foot of a tall white farmhouse, two stories high and flanked by three sturdy oak trees. Rose bushes sprawl across the lawn, fitted up against the wraparound porch. As soon as Renly steps out of the car, the clean, sweet scent of the roses hits him, and for a moment he feels as though he and Loras have stepped into another world, a lonely perfumed world, seductive in its isolation.

Then Loras slams the car door shut and an elderly woman steps out onto the porch to stare down at Renly, a deep frown on her weathered face. Unease pools in Renly's stomach as he follows Loras up the steps.

“Grandmother,” Loras begins, an incongruous note of steel in his voice, “this is Renly Baratheon. I found him down by the pond, and he's going to be staying with us tonight.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tyrell,” Renly greets her.

“Oh, please,” she huffs. “It's Olenna. I haven't been Mrs.Tyrell since my damn fool of a husband rode his horse over a quarry.” She sizes Renly up, and her eyes, brown like her grandson’s, show no warmth, only the same suspicion Renly had seen in the faces at the gas station.

Renly's heart sinks as he tries to make sense of this tense welcome. Perhaps Loras’s family doesn't approve of his sexuality? Renly imagines how much lonelier this isolated existence must be for Loras in light of his family's--and, Renly guesses, his neighbors’--disapproval.

Or maybe they just don't like strangers. Renly has been around long enough not to pin too much hope on that interpretation, but he tentatively grasps it all the same.

“It's nice to meet you, Renly,” Olenna finally says. She shakes Renly's hand dismissively and opens the door to usher him into the house, Loras following behind.

Inside, the decor is the same mix of old and new that Renly has come to expect from the Midwest; the wallpaper looks straight out of the seventies, a busy gold and green floral pattern on a blue background, but a large flat screen television hangs on one wall. An antique armoire in the hallway houses dozens of china figurines, rows of fragile white angels sheathed in flowers and holding harps. The air is heavy, dusty almost, though every surface Renly can see is spotless; the windows are open and the air conditioning unit in one does very little but stir the hot air around.

“If you'll excuse us for a moment,” Olenna says, her voice clipped, “I need to speak with my grandson.” Renly doesn’t have time to answer before Olenna drags Loras away by the wrist, down the hallway and through an arch that Renly assumes leads to the dining area. 

In the sudden stillness, Renly watches dust motes dance in beams of light from the windows; heavy drapes hang open, thick green and gold damask tied back with tasseled blue rope. There’s a picture hanging on the wall above the couch, showing Loras with an arm around a timelessly beautiful young woman who could have been Loras’s twin. It’s one of those old-timey souvenir photos Renly has seen at various tourist traps; the colors are varying shades of sepia, and both Loras and the young woman are wearing period costumes. 

It’s the expression on the young woman’s face that entrances Renly, as though she’s watching him, as though she knows more about him and his place in this home than he does. Lost in her sly gaze and coy smile, Renly feels the world grow muffled, stifled. He thinks he hears a sort of shuffling from above, as though someone is walking around in the room over Renly’s head. He’s quickly distracted, however, by the snatches of conversation he can hear between Loras and Olenna--

“-- _ selfish child, you can’t just--it isn't safe _ ," Olenna hisses, and Renly resists the urge to move closer. “ _ What will we -- if he -- the addlepated villagers we call neighbors will--” _

_ “--nothing _ ,” Loras hisses back. His next few words are incomprehensible but his tone is heated. “ _ \--too long. Can’t hide -- forever …. It’s almost over... --”  _ Another pause as his voice lowers further, then, “-- _ they’ll live. _ ”

Renly rubs his arms uncomfortably as though he’s suddenly felt a draft. Unease pools in his stomach; his welcome here is tenuous at best, and he hates feeling out of his element. More than anything he suddenly wants to turn and run for his car, get back on the road and floor it to Horn Hill. 

But clearly this night means more to Loras than it does to Renly; Renly wonders when Loras last had a visitor over, much less a date or a lover. And part of Renly, a part he’s slightly ashamed to give so much weight to, really, really wants to get Loras in bed. He’s had a long, varied list of sexual partners, but unseemly as the thought strikes him, he wants to add a shy farmboy to the list. So Renly tiptoes down the hall and knocks tentatively on the wall to announce his presence, and Olenna and Loras start apart to stare at him.

“Well,” Olenna humphs. There’s another thud from upstairs, and Olenna sighs. “You,” she points at Loras, “are still a foolish little boy. Gods forbid time grant you wisdom.” She turns on her heels and heads up the stairs at the end of the hall, and when Renly turns to Loras, Loras has his jaw clenched and his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Somehow he’s even more attractive like this, petulant and aggressive, his body coiled like a snake’s. He has a lovely, expressive body, and Renly remembers how sweetly Loras had arched into his touch back at the pond.

“I’m sorry about that,” Loras finally says. He takes a deep breath, looks out the window, then back at Renly. “She’s agreed to let you stay, but … I understand if you don’t want to. Things are .... complicated here. Always have been. It’s not fair for me to ask a complete stranger to spend a night out here.” He scoffs at that last bit as though it’s a joke, but his eyes are sad.

Renly reaches out and traces one of Loras’s cheekbones with his index finger, following the sharp line up to the corner of his eye, up into his messy curls. “Trust me, Loras,” he says, smiling reassuringly, “I’m not going to turn down a free meal. And as far as dysfunctional families go, I know all about those, too.”

Loras lets out a shaky breath and returns Renly’s smile, reaching up to wrap his hand around the wrist Renly has buried in his hair. “We’re not dysfunctional so much. We love each other. But--some things happened awhile back. Things we’re still trying to get over.”

Renly’s mind goes back to the woman in the photograph above the sofa. He wants to ask Loras about her, but something about the look in her eyes and the way her lips tilted in a lopsided smirk stops him. Then Loras steps close to stand on his tiptoes and peck Renly’s lips, and Renly is once again overwhelmed by the scent of Loras--not cologne, not the expensive sort Renly prefers or the cheap swill found in drugstores, but something deeper. Incense, perhaps, or a rich homemade soap. 

“So when’s dinner?” Renly asks, his voice hoarser than he would have liked.

Loras smirks a little at Renly’s tone. “Give us an hour or so.” He nips at Renly’s earlobe. “Once we’ve had dinner  _ and _ a drink, I’d say we’ll be proper boyfriends after all.”

***

Dinner turns out to be one of the better meals Renly has had in awhile: lightly grilled turkey and buttered green beans, mashed potatoes whipped so fine they melt in his mouth, mushrooms fried in seasoned breading, and a peach cobbler warm out of the oven. Dusk falls through the kitchen windows as Renly eats with the Tyrells around a small table; the light from the sunset throws violet shadows up on the walls and into corners, and Renly finds himself relaxing into the conversation and camaraderie.

Loras’s father, a round older man named Mace, beams at Renly from across the table as he pours another glass of homemade cider for himself. Renly grimaces at his own half-full glass; the cider is heavy on alcohol and very low on sweetness, but Mace had poured it out proudly for Renly and Renly gainfully takes a sip and smiles at him.

“So you say you’re going out to big ol’ King’s Landing?” Mace asks, chewing loudly, his knife and fork scraping his plate as he cuts himself another bite of turkey. “Seems like no one wants to stay where they’re put these days.” 

Renly puts on his best charming smile. “There’s so much to see, though. I’d hate to limit myself to one city.” 

“If only all of us were so fortunate as to have a choice,” Olenna mutters into her cider, and Renly’s face heats up.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with finding a place you like and sticking with it,” Renly backtracks. He takes another gulp of cider, his toes and fingers warming as it spreads through him. “Plenty of reasons to stay where you are. It’s just that I had a lot of reasons to leave where I was.” 

Loras nudges Renly’s foot with his own under the table and shoots him a small smile.

“Mother’s just angry that she’s stuck here with Loras and I!” Mace exclaims, his face growing redder with each drink he takes. “And mind you, not everyone’s lucky enough to have a son willing to stay and oversee the family business. Loras, here, he’s a good boy--not going to up and leave us for some fancy college three states away.”

Renly studies Loras’s face, noting carefully the way his smile changes and his jaw clenches at his father’s words. 

“College isn’t all it’s made out to be,” Renly offers, swallowing a bite of mashed potatoes and reaching out to touch Loras’s hand. Loras raises his eyes and his smile loosens, his face relaxing around it. “I’m swimming in debt I’ll never pay off and my brain is full of information I’ll never use.”

“What a lovely way to look at higher education,” Olenna tuts, spearing a green bean and raising her eyebrows. “But at least you’re making your own choices, I suppose. So tell me, Renly, what are you running all the way across the country from?”

“Grandmother,” Loras admonishes, but Renly just squeezes his hand.

“I wouldn’t say I’m running from anything.” Renly considers reaching for another piece of cobbler, then decides against it. “My oldest brother, Robert, is in politics, and I’m going to help run his reelection campaign.”

Mace raises his glass and nods his head at Renly. “See, he’s a family man, I could just tell! Like I said, too many kids these days forget their roots--”

There’s a muffled thud overhead, and the Tyrells freeze. A cool breeze ruffles the curtains, raising momentary goosebumps on Renly’s arms. 

“You should take Renly for a walk,” Olenna instructs Loras, rising from the table. Mace takes one last swig of his cider and pushes his chair back, his brow suddenly furrowed. The tension on Mace’s face disquiets Renly more than the sudden silence and the forgotten food, and he’s more than happy to let Loras tug him out of the house.

“There’s a grove of trees about a quarter mile into the field,” Loras says, lacing his fingers through Renly’s. “It’s a quiet place. We should go there. You can tell me more about all the places you’ve been--”

“What was all that about?” Renly tugs on Loras’s hand to halt him. “Back there, at dinner.”

Loras lets out a long sigh. “We have trouble with the pipes upstairs. When they rattle and thud like that, it means something’s probably wrong. Father and Grandmother went to make sure one hasn’t burst.” He pulls Renly forward, down a little dirt path leading into a field. “But they can deal with that tonight.”

Renly frowns but lets Loras lead him down an uneven path bisecting waving knee-high grass. The air smells fresh and sweet and the wind is soft and sharp by turns; Renly feels as though summer has turned to autumn, or winter to spring; the night is as liminal as the blur between seasons, encompassing all and none. The long grasses shuffle and sigh around them, and Renly’s tongue is suddenly heavy, his heart filled with a reverent longing as he looks up at the sharp stars and round moon.

Renly snaps out of his daze when Loras pulls him into the small copse of trees “Sit there,” Loras directs, and Renly slides down to sit at the base of a tree, between two large roots. Loras nudges Renly’s legs apart and settles between them, his back against Renly’s chest. In the moonlight, he is ethereal, almost regal, his eyes large and golden and sad. Renly wraps his arms around Loras and rests his chin on Loras’s slim shoulder, taking in the scent of wild roses lingering in Loras’s wild brown curls. 

"We're safe out here, aren't we?" Renly asks. It's such a peaceful night, but Renly can't help but worry at the kernel of disquiet the man at the gas station had planted in his brain.

Loras twists to look at Renly over his shoulder. "Why wouldn't we be safe?"

Renly doesn't know whether to feel frustrated or ridiculous or both. "Uh, at the gas station today … I was led to believe there's some sort of homicidal maniac roaming the fields." He tries to force a laugh, but it comes out as an unattractive bark.

When Loras laughs, his laughter is far too warm and soothing given the subject matter. "I'm assuming you mean Lannister and Tytos? Sad what happened to them, but I can assure you there's no serial killer stalking Cider Hall."

A little of Renly's unease drifts away. Still--"How exactly can you be sure?"

Loras shrugs. "Dad's friends with the sheriff. Lannister was old--bad hip--and he fell and hit his head. Brother Tytos was the blindest, drunkest septon you'd ever meet, and he managed to shoot himself while cleaning a hunting rifle. Like I said, shitty for both of them, but nothing you need to worry about."

Feeling faintly ridiculous for letting his imagination run away with him on the basis of one unfriendly conversation, Renly rests his head back against the bark of the tree. 

“Tell me,” Loras finally says, his hands tracing Renly’s, “of all the places you’ve been.” Loras’s touch is light but deliberate, his fingers leaving little shivers in their wake. Suddenly none of the places Renly has been seem half as bright nor half as holy as this circle of trees in an overgrown field.

“I grew up in Storm’s End,” Renly finally says. “In a mansion right on top of a cliff. On good days, you could see miles out to sea, and on bad days, you could sit inside and watch the lightning.”

“And which did you prefer? The good days or the bad?”

Renly gives a hushed snort of laughter. “The good days, of course. Who would prefer the bad?”

Loras shrugs. “After awhile, they all bleed together.” 

Renly presses a soft kiss to Loras’s neck. He thinks about asking Loras which days he has more of, the good or the bad, but he doesn’t want to know. He hopes this day counts among the good ones. He certainly thinks of it as such, despite the few awkward moments; the earth is warm beneath him, the stars are warm above him, and Loras is warm and inviting against him. 

“There were smaller cliffs jutting out over the water,” Renly continues. “My friends and I used to go cliff diving whenever my uncle was pretending not to watch us.” He chuckles. “Once we all tried to build a raft with driftwood and rope, thinking we would sail off to Bravos. It sank, of course, and then we hid in a cave and pretended we were castaways until we got too hungry to rough it any longer. That only took about three hours.”

Loras laughs. “Did you have a lot of friends, then?”

“I did,” Renly confirms. “And you?” He wants to bite back the question as soon as he asks it, feeling guiltier and guiltier as Loras shifts in his arms and lets out a long sigh.

“I did. They’ve all gone away, though.”

Off to college, Renly thinks. Off into the big wide world. And though Loras seems almost a part of the land, his presence as right in this tableau as the presence of the grass and the presence of the wind, Renly wonders at his willingness to stay in this place, as rooted as the trees. He kisses Loras again, just below his ear.

“Do that again,” Loras breathes, so Renly does, his mouth open and wet, his tongue slipping out from between his lips to see if Loras tastes as good as he smells.

He does, of course, and Renly applies himself to studying Loras’s jawline, gently guiding his head this way and that, brushing curls aside to get at the nape of his neck. Renly is distantly aware that Loras’s breathing has picked up, hitching every now and then as Loras melts into Renly’s kisses.

“We should go back,” Loras finally murmurs, turning to face Renly. “Back to my room.” It’s half an order, half a question, and Loras’s eyes are a little wary.

“We have more privacy here,” Renly points out.

The wariness in Loras’s eyes fades, replaced by impatience. “I don’t want to be fucked up against a tree,” he says curtly, and stands, brushing forest detritus off his jeans. He raises an eyebrow at Renly, then holds out a hand to help him up.

“You do want to get fucked, though?” Renly asks slyly as they step back out onto the trail. 

Loras snorts but doesn’t dignify Renly’s question with a response. Renly wonders whether Loras will be pliant and soft or sharp and demanding; a mix of both, Renly decides, a shiver of excitement running up his spine. 

The house in the distance is dark but for a porch light shining in a pale imitation of the moon overhead.


	4. Cast My Spell of Love On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's the smut. here it is.

The stairs don’t creak as Renly follows Loras up to his room; the second-floor hallway is pitch black, and Renly keeps a hand on Loras’s hip to keep from losing his way in the dark. He nearly runs into Loras when Loras stops to open a door; the room beyond is just as dark as the hallway, and Renly stays put against the doorframe as Loras moves away. 

After a moment, a soft glow illuminates a corner of the room. Loras is nothing but a shadow as he slides gracefully through the lightening gloom, striking matches to light candles in little globes scattered about the small living space. Renly finds himself thoroughly unsurprised when Loras lights incense in a burner on a dresser pressed against a wall; candles and incense, lilac and cedar, an atmosphere as flickering and intimate and transient as that beneath the trees: Renly had expected as much, deep down.

“You can put your bag here,” Loras says, motioning off-handedly at a chest at the foot of his bed. Renly had nearly forgotten about the duffle he had retrieved from his car, but now he sets it down on the lid of the chest and stands awkwardly as Loras goes about lighting more candles. He saves the two tall candles flanking the incense burner for last; they’re a soft pastel blue, like robins’ eggs, and when the wicks catch Renly swears the flames burn silver for just an instant.

There’s an hypnotic mysticism in the way Loras moves when he comes to stand before Renly. His room seems less a quirky pagan conceit and more a shrine with the flames of two dozen candles offering up their light and the heady incense perfuming the air. Renly is suddenly nervous; he accepted Loras’s invitation expecting an awkward fumble with an eternally grateful farmboy. Instead, he finds himself unable to break Loras’s intense gaze, even as Loras pulls his t-shirt up over his head and throws it to the floor.

Renly starts to undo the buttons on his own shirt but Loras’s hands close over his.

“I only have you for one night,” Loras says matter-of-factly. “We’ll do this my way, unless you have any objections.”

Renly raises an eyebrow as Loras’s fingers work him out of his shirt. “If any pop up, I’ll let you know.”

“Good.” Loras bites his lower lip and looks Renly up and down, his head tilted slightly to one side. In this light, Renly can see the streaks of gold highlighting Loras’s curls. Gold in his hair, gold in his eyes; Loras is mundane and miraculous all at once, and Renly feels lightheaded. Strange, he thinks, that even with so many candles, the room is much cooler than the night air had been.

“Do you have an itinerary for tonight?” Renly teases gently, when Loras makes no move to step closer. “A list of things you’d like to do?”

Loras blushes unexpectedly, but his gaze is direct as he steps forward, his chin raised proudly. He’s so close that their bare torsos meet with every breath they take, and Renly glimpses longing and a strange sorrow in the instant before Loras stands on his toes to bring their mouths together.

The kiss is a slow, sweet whisper, an open-mouthed sigh, a warm and quiet calm. Loras’s hands tangle in Renly’s hair when Renly tugs him close; Loras takes a breath as their skin comes together. Renly grips one of Loras’s hips with one hand and runs a broad palm up his back; he’s gentle but insistent, holding Loras to him, and then Loras’s tongue is in his mouth, demanding more than a hushed shared breath.

It’s nothing like the kiss back at the pond. 

Loras kisses as though he’ll never kiss again, the wild abandon of bittersweet endings so real on his tongue that Renly can almost taste it. Desperation and defiance radiate from Loras, and Renly imagines the lonely nights he must have spent here, his dreams turning to ash in this room burning with scraps of shifting light. 

“C’mere,” Renly murmurs, breaking the kiss. Loras blindly seeks Renly’s skin with his mouth, leaving smeared kisses across Renly’s neck and shoulders as Renly lifts his slight frame just enough to spin him around and back onto the bed. Renly straddles him and Loras instantly tangles his fingers back in Renly’s hair and jerks their mouths back together.

Renly lets Loras lead the kiss for another handful of moments before he pulls away. Loras growls and narrows his eyes, but Renly only grins and leans down to whisper in his ear. 

“There are so many other places I could put my mouth,” Renly breathes, one hand pressed lightly to Loras’s stomach. If Loras thinks this is the last fuck he’ll ever get, Renly wants to make it memorable. 

“Everywhere,” Loras whispers, his breath catching. “You can put your mouth everywhere.”

Renly nuzzles Loras’s neck, then does just that. He lets his hands wander, lets his lips and tongue chase them down Loras’s torso, and Loras raises his body to meet every touch. Renly takes his time undressing Loras, unable to resist the urge to tease, and when he kneels between Loras’s legs Loras whines softly and tilts his hips upward.

Now Renly doesn’t tease. He takes Loras in his mouth, slicking the warm, pulsing skin with his tongue. He has one hand wrapped around Loras and the other exploring sweet, shadowed places deep between Loras’s thighs. Loras gasps and writhes and Renly rides the tense, excited swells of his body, unwilling to pin such a wild, strange man down as he seeks pleasure.

A hand curls into a fist in Renly’s hair and Loras tugs his head up. “In me,” Loras breathes, a command and a plea, and Renly finishes undressing himself as Loras watches with hungry, hypnotizing eyes. Renly searches through his duffle bag for a condom and lube, glad he’d packed them. He hadn’t foreseen this exact situation--he isn't sure what this exact situation even  _ was _ \--but it's more exhilarating than it had any right to be.

Renly takes his time before crouching between Loras’s legs and sliding into him; Loras’s eyelids flutter and he cants his hips up against Renly’s, giving Renly better access. For as much as Loras had seemed to desire control, he feels fragile under Renly despite his lithe muscle. A sapling, Renly thinks, dizzy from the incense and the pleasure and the candlelight. A sapling rooted in suffocating soil, its roots struggling to burst from the dirt and taste the freedom of the sky.

“Harder,” Loras murmurs, then--“ _ Harder _ ,” Loras grits out, and--“ _ Harder _ ,” Loras orders harshly. His fingernails scrape Renly’s shoulder blades, his spine, the small of his back. “ _ Harder _ ,” Loras snarls, and Renly leans down to shut him up with a kiss even as he drives his hips faster and deeper. Loras kisses him with the same end-of-the-world fervor as before, panting into Renly’s mouth as they fall into a punishing rhythm.

The mattress jolts on creaky springs and the headboard hits the wall as Loras’s whispers and grunts and moans pick up into shouts and inarticulate cries; his toes curl against the backs of Renly’s thighs, and when he comes he pulls Renly’s hair hard enough to hurt. Of course he’s beautiful when he comes, Renly thinks, and finds his own release as he watches Loras’s mouth fall open and his head arch back against the pillows.

Renly takes a few moments to catch his breath before he pulls away. Loras stretches out next to him, his eyes heavy and content, and they lie side by side in silence. 

“You really are lovely,” Renly finally says. It’s the only thing he can think to say.

Loras’s smile is sweet and sleepy. “I know. I have a mirror.” He leans over and kisses Renly’s shoulder. “But I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

Renly laughs softly. He closes his eyes, not intending to sleep quite yet, but when he opens his eyes the room is dark, the candles snuffed out, and Loras is curled up against him. The room is warm enough that Renly feels no need to slip under the blankets. He watches the curtains of the open window twist in a cool breeze, and again he’s hit by a pang of surreality that sends a shiver up his spine.

Frowning, Renly buries his face in the crook of Loras’s neck and closes his eyes.


	5. And I'm Lurking in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A troubling dream throws Renly off balance as he learns the reason Loras feels so bound to his family.

_ Torches. Torches reflecting off blurred faces and shining in malevolent eyes. A full moon, an indifferent moon, hanging low in the sky. And a sweet song on curled, sneering lips, a song Renly remembers from services in the sept at Storm’s End when he was a child: _

_ “The father’s face is stern and strong.” The voices sound distant and hushed. “He sits and judges right from wrong.” The voices twine around Renly like a clinging fog. “He weighs our lives,” the voices chorus, “the short and long.” _

_ Renly waits for the next line:  _ and loves the little children _ . But it never comes; instead, the voices seem to crawl up Renly’s spine like greedy insects, devouring. _

_ “The father’s face is stern and strong.” Faster this time, louder, the torches blazing brighter. “He sits and judges right from wrong.” Booming now, worming into Renly’s head. “He weighs our lives.” Then, explosive and dark and malicious and gleeful, “THE SHORT!”--a screech--“THE LONG!” _

_ “And loves the little children,” Renly whispers, and a pair of shrewd emerald eyes in a misshapen face find him in the dark. _

_ “Does he truly?” A hiss from behind Renly. He spins, his heart pounding, _

and sits up in bed, sweat beading his brow and his chest. He runs his hands up and down his arms, trying to rub away a sudden chill, and stands up, careful not to wake Loras.

He wonders where the bathroom is. He leaves the room as quietly as possible, strangely unsettled at the thought of being alone in this house. He feels as though he is betraying Loras somehow, trespassing on a life he’ll never understand. But he has to piss.

Renly feels his way along the dark wall; he can see the very faint outline of an open door at the end of the hallway. A chill creeps up his spine as he takes one careful step at a time. The remnants of the nightmare, he thinks, and shakes them off. But he feels that there are eyes following him, surely: angry, distorted eyes discolored by a torchlight echo. Renly glances over his shoulder, unable to help himself, and freezes.

At the other end of the hallway, silhouetted by the faint traces of moonlight filtering through the blinds, is a hunched shadow. It takes a small, shuffling step towards Renly and he bolts for the bathroom, hitting his shin on something as he hurls himself inside and slams the door behind him. His shaking hands find the lightswitch and then the lock, and he slumps down by the toilet as his brain scrambles to find an explanation for what he has just seen.

His imagination, he finally decides, standing. He’s still shaking as he relieves himself and washes his hands. A trick of the light. Paranoia brought on by a nightmare.

Then he hears a scratching at the door. Fingernails, raking their way up and down as though trying to claw through the wood. There’s a frustrated grunt and a high, inhuman whine that makes Renly’s hair stand on end, and then a sudden loud bang as something collides with the door. 

Renly searches the bathroom for a way out, but there’s not so much as a window. His stomach clenches as he steels himself, and then he knocks on the door right back, heavy thuds that echo in his ears. “Loras!” he shouts, as a warning rather than a cry for help. “Loras, get out of the house! Someone’s in here!” Another chill raises goosebumps on Renly’s arms. He had been so quick to dismiss the people of Cider Hall and their tales of brutal murders, but now he wonders if he had been too hasty in doing so.

There’s a commotion in the hallway and Renly unlocks the bathroom door and swings it open. He certainly isn’t going to let Loras handle whatever lurks in the hallway on his own. But when Renly’s eyes make sense of the scene before him, lit by the harsh glare of the overhead lights, he frowns.

A frail old woman with a soft waist-length fall of silver hair stands with her back to Renly; Loras is facing her, his hands on his shoulders, whispering something, his urgent eyes searching the woman’s face. After a moment she nods, and Loras meets Renly’s eyes over her shoulder.

“Renly,” Loras says, his voice low and careful, “this is my … my great-grandmother.” 

The woman turns her face to Renly and Renly steps back, trying to hide an involuntary shudder. Her face is a warren of old burn scars folded into deep wrinkles and her unfocused brown eyes stare through him. 

“She was in a terrible fire when she was young,” Loras snaps defensively, and Renly winces.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” Renly addresses Loras’s great-grandmother. “You startled me. I didn’t realize there was a fourth Tyrell in the house.”

“Her name is Margaery,” Loras says. He puts a protective arm around her. “And Renly is a friend, Margaery. He’s safe.”

“ _ Leave _ ,” Margaery murmurs. “ _ You should leave _ .”

“He’ll be leaving soon,” Loras consoles her, a note of sadness in his voice. He looks up at Renly and gives him a tired smile. “I’m going to take her back to her room and sit with her awhile.” He falters, then adds, “You can come with us if you’d like.”

Nightmares and gruesome great-grandmothers. Renly wants to grab Loras and drag him away from this place. Instead he nods and follows Loras and Margaery into a room at the end of the hall.

Lamps on bedside tables lend the room a soft glow. The wallpaper is a faded, dusty shade of pink, the carpet thick gold shag that Renly’s bare feet sink into. He watches Loras lead Margaery to the bed, where they sit in silence for a moment until Margaery looks from Loras to Renly.

“He’s passing through on a road trip,” Loras explains. He gestures for Renly to sit in the rocking chair next to the bed, and Renly does, squeezing his large frame into the small chair. “I asked him to stay the night,” Loras continues.

Renly swallows as Margaery continues to study him, her eyes lucid for a few long seconds. She nods and her eyes lose focus.

“So, uh, Margaery,” Renly starts, searching his brain for something to say. “Have you lived here all your life?”

“We both have,” Loras says. He’s running his fingers through Margaery’s hair, separating it into three smooth sections. When he begins to weave it into a braid, Margaery hums and closes her eyes.

A million questions run through Renly’s mind, none of them appropriate to ask in Margaery’s company. So he waits until Loras ties off Margaery’s braid and tucks her into bed; he kisses her forehead as he turns off one of the lamps, then motions for Renly to follow him back to his room.

“You’re very kind to her,” Renly says, settling back into bed even though he doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall asleep again.

Loras frowns. “She’s family. I’m the only one who can calm her when she has her … her fits. I’ve always taken care of her.”

Anger wells up in Renly’s throat. Loras shouldn’t have to carry such a burden; what kind of monsters were his father and grandmother to give a young man charge of an old and senile woman? Family or not, Renly fails to see how Margaery is Loras’s responsibility. “Surely your grandmother cares for her, as well?”

“Of course.” Loras blinks in surprise. “We all do. It’s just--like I said--it’s just that she’s mine to take care of.”

“That’s why you stay here.” Renly doesn’t think he could ever be so selfless. “You don’t want to leave her.”

Loras heaves a deep, weary sigh. “I  _ can’t _ leave her. My place is here.”

With an acerbic grandmother and a bumbling father and acres of farmland for company. Renly has a sinking suspicion that he’s the first person outside of his family that Loras has spent any time with in awhile. No wonder he kissed so desperately.

“I could stay a few more days,” Renly blurts out. He hadn’t meant to say it, and the words hang heavy between them. “I’m not in any rush to get to King’s Landing. You could show me around.”

Loras raises an eyebrow as a tentative smile blooms on his face. “My family won’t like that.”

Renly brushes a stray curl behind Loras’s ear. “Would you like that?”

Loras nods. “I would.” He catches Renly’s hand and kisses his palm. “Tomorrow you can come into Cider Hall with me. I need to pick up groceries.”

It isn't exactly Renly’s idea of a thrilling date, but he nods. “I look forward to it.” He looks forward to getting Loras away from his godforsaken family, even if it’s just for a few hours. Maybe Renly can even scout out a restaurant or a movie theater and take him on a proper date. Renly doesn’t know if what he feels for Loras is pity or fascination or both in equal measure; he’s not sure he even wants to find out, but he’s in too deep to back out with a clear conscience.

Renly pulls Loras into his arms as they slide back down into bed; Loras is asleep almost immediately, but Renly stays awake until dawn, unable to shake the memory of his nightmares.


	6. Your Prayers Are the Final Punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more answers Renly gets about the Tyrells, the more questions he has--questions he's not even sure how to ask.

Renly can’t bring himself to crawl out of bed until noon. Somehow it had been easier for him to fall asleep with the first rays of sunlight drifting through the window, but now the room is too hot to sleep in comfortably and Renly forces himself to his feet. Loras is gone, but Renly had expected as much; doubtless Loras had some sort of list of farm chores to take care of at the break of dawn. Renly’s pretty sure that’s how farms work.

He grabs his toothbrush and a fresh outfit from his duffle bag before peaking out into the hallway. It’s quiet, the humidity somehow adding to the silence, but the bathroom door is open and Renly takes that as his cue to shower. The water is warmer than he would have liked, but he chalks that up to whatever problems Mace and Olenna had had with the pipes the night before.

Unless their problems hadn’t involved the pipes at all. Renly frowns as he works shampoo through his thick hair. He remembers Margaery’s lurching gait and the thump as she threw her frail body against the bathroom door; had those noises last night been caused by one of her fits? And if so, why had the Tyrells been so set on hiding the senile old woman living at the end of the hallway?

Renly decides that Olenna is most likely insane, and Mace an enabler, if they keep one member of their family locked up away from prying eyes; Renly has a sneaking suspicion that they’re doing the same thing with Loras to keep him under control. Telling him he’s the only one who can take care of a great-grandmother he obviously loves. Telling him he’s needed on the farm; he’s  _ absolutely necessary  _ to the family. Telling him he can’t leave, even when letting him stretch his wings would only make his life better. 

Hell, moving to a bigger town, one with a reputable senior care center, would probably be healthier for Margaery; as it is, Renly imagines she’s fated to die in this lonely farmhouse, and Loras is fated to care for her while she does. Renly dries himself off and dresses, his thoughts darkening further when he hears raised voices from downstairs.

“You’re a lovestruck fool is what you are!” Olenna shouts. “You shouldn’t be seen in town with him! You’re not to go gallivanting around like a silly little lady showing her suitor off for the world to see!”

A snort. “What  _ world _ ? The grocery store? I’ll be quick about it and you’ll never know I was gone.” A heavy pause. “Now do we fucking need Crisco or not?”

“No,” Olenna says primly. “Not unless that’s still what you folk use for lube.”

Renly grits his teeth together in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of his older brother Stannis and runs down the stairs two at a time, making as much noise as he can.

“I heard someone say lube,” Renly offers, flashing Olenna his most charismatic grin. “I’d prefer breakfast, but if you don’t have anything prepared, I’m sure I could find something to eat.” He smirks at Loras, who rolls his eyes.

“We'll pick something up at the store,” Loras says, ignoring Renly’s innuendo. He turns away from Olenna’s exasperated gaze and grabs the keys on a hook by the door.

Renly follows Loras out to a dilapidated car that looks like it hasn’t been roadworthy in decades. He almost suggests they take his car, but Loras already has the car turned on by the time Renly slides into the passenger seat.

“Sorry about that, with Grandma.” Loras’s voice is tight as he turns the car and heads down the long driveway. “It’s my fault, all of this.” He sighs heavily as they drive through the overgrown gates and turn towards Cider Hall.

“Your fault?” Renly raises an eyebrow, bile rising in his throat. “And why exactly is it  _ your  _ fault you shouldn’t go into town? And why does it matter whether you  _ show off a suitor _ or not?” He’s sure he knows the answer, and he wishes he had something to hit. “It’s not your fault everyone around here is a close-minded piece of shit.”

Loras’s look of confusion would have been comical if Renly wasn’t so full of righteous anger. Instead it only made Renly feel worse. This town is all Loras has ever known; disgusted stares and a cool, careful distance were likely routine and unremarkable to him. Renly decides he's going to lavish as much affection on Loras as possible in the next few days, and he’s fairly certain he can turn grocery shopping into a lascivious and uncomfortable event for anyone watching Loras.

Renly pays a little more attention to Cider Hall as they enter the city limits. Just past the gas station and the main thoroughfare, Loras takes a left onto another two-lane road. To Renly’s right is a hardware store and a large farm supply store; to his left is a cafe, a secondhand shop, and the grocery store. Looking down the road, Renly notes with surprise that it ends in the gravel parking lot of a sept far too grand for such a small town. He remembers the voices in his dreams, the hymn that had wormed its way into his head, and shudders despite the heat. 

“You okay?” Loras asks, parking the car in front of the grocery store. A man smoking on a bench near them takes one look at Loras and flicks his cigarette in their direction before spitting on the ground in front of the car. 

Renly’s face darkens as he steps out of the car and slams the door hard. He’s standing over the man on the bench a moment later, leveraging his impressive height and broad-shouldered frame.

“Do you have something you’d like to say?” Renly asks, but the man only gives him a venomous glare as Loras grabs Renly by the crook of the elbow and pulls him away.

“Dont,” Loras pleads. The sliding doors open and Renly is grateful for the air conditioning. “I’ve played that game with them,” Loras says softly as he gets a cart. “I played that game for a long, long time. Only made it worse.”

A hush follows them as Loras pushes the cart through the aisles, stopping every once in awhile to check his list. People scatter before them wherever they go, and those who hold their ground stare with dark, angry eyes. Renly slides an arm around Loras’s shoulder, pretending to study the shopping list and standing far closer than necessary to do so. 

“Do they have anything better to do than fantasize about committing hate crimes?” Renly finally whispers as one old woman actually holds up a medallion carved with the seven-pointed star. It would be funny if it weren’t Loras’s life. 

“Hate crimes?” Loras murmurs absently as he checks the expiration date on a gallon of milk. Satisfied, he places it in the cart and frowns at Renly. “What do you mean?”

Renly blinks. “Because … you’re gay? And saying they’re uncomfortable with that is a gross understatement?”

To Renly’s surprise, Loras laughs out loud. His laughter seems to frighten the other shoppers more than his silence had, and there is a sudden rush for the cash registers. 

“Gods, Renly.” Loras wipes tears from the corners of his eyes. “Oh gods, that’s--no, that’s not what this is.” 

“It’s either homophobia or mass hysteria.” Suddenly Renly feels wrong-footed again. He can’t imagine anything Loras could have done to provoke such reactions from the people of Cider Hall.

“To be fair, there was a stir when I took up with one of Baelish’s foster sons,” Loras says. He pushes the cart down far enough to give the selection of orange juice a withering once over. “But that was a long time ago and it ended poorly for both of us. Times have changed.”

Renly squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Times have changed since you were, what, in high school? What was that, seven years ago?” He can’t quite remember how old Loras had said he was. Maybe he had never said. 

Loras freezes for an instant, then grabs a quart of orange juice. “Do you want to know why they really hate my family?”

“At this point, I can’t even wager a guess,” Renly admits, feeling defeated. Either Loras is in the sort of deep denial that only therapy can help, or he’s got some sort of mental condition that only therapy can help. Renly is not a licensed therapist, but he feels compelled to do his best. “Why do they hate your family?”

Loras looks up at Renly from under his eyelashes, trapping him in a blistering staredown even as he shoots Renly a devilish smile that makes his toes curl. “They think we’re cursed,” Loras whispers, licking his lips. “They think I’m a witch.”

It’s Renly’s turn to laugh out loud. “Gods, Loras, come on, don’t leave me hanging on this--”

“It’s true.” Loras is still grinning as he pushes his cart towards the registers. “Our family got into a little spat with the family running this town a hundred years ago--the Lannisters--and they convinced the town that every Tyrell from generation to generation would bear a curse.”

“Have you--” Renly pauses to collect himself. “Have you ever considered asking the mayor to put in a movie theater or something? Maybe a donor could build a mall? This is, like, horror movie cult stuff here, Loras.”

Loras loads his groceries onto the conveyor belt and ignores the cashier, who carefully ignores him right back. “We have a movie theater,” Loras says. “It’s a drive-in a few miles down the road.”

Well, that answers Renly’s least important question. 

As Renly helps Loras load their purchases into the trunk, he can’t help staring at the sept down the way. It’s the most impressive building he’s seen in this town, all polished stone and stained glass windows. A flag flies from the top, a pure white that's nearly blinding in the sun, a seven-pointed star stamped on it in gold. 

“Would you like to see it?” Loras asks. “There’s no service tonight, but you could light a candle if you’re the religious type.”

Renly nods before he remembers that he's very much not the religious type. He blinks and the afterimage of torches seems to linger behind his eyelids.  _ The father judges right from wrong _ . And so, Renly thinks bitterly, do his little children. As they churn up gravel and pull up outside the church, Renly wonders if Loras will even go inside; the part of Renly that halfway believes Loras’s fairytale excuses is very, very curious indeed.

But Loras walks up the steps and pushes the heavy doors open, then waits for Renly to join him. The sept is cool, almost damp, smelling of fresh-cut grass and heavy earth. Sun through the stained glass windows paints the marble statues of the gods in rainbow hues: all but the statue of the Stranger in her customary shadowed cove.

“I haven’t been here in awhile,” Loras says. He stops suddenly, and Renly peers over his shoulder to see what caught his attention:

Two portraits and a bronze plaque. The portraits are both very old, one of a beautiful young woman with long, intricately plaited blonde hair. The man beside her is not nearly so enchanting; he wears drab robes and a pious frown. The plaque read

_ In honor of the High Sparrow and Cersei Lannister, who rooted out and overcame the evildoers so that the Light of the Seven could shine once more upon this town. Let this sept be a reminder of the sins we must cast out of our community and the piety we must display for the world. The Father has given it to us, his children, to judge right from wrong, and in this holy place we will ever respect his edict. In the Light of the Seven, 1899 _

“Well they sound like a pair.” Renly has never had much respect for the gods.

“Which gods do you pray to?” Loras asks softly. His dark eyes travel the larger-than-life image of the Father, something sly and challenging in them, as though he could tear the marble down just by looking at it. 

“The Father and the Mother,” Renly says. “When I was little, I thought they might bring my parents back.”

Loras sneers at the Father and walks his hands up the statue’s carved robes.  _ Click click click _ , his fingernails tap out, and then  _ scritch scritch screeeech _ as he drags them back down to the pedestal bearing the statue. “Do you still pray?” Loras asks, though he sounds less curious and more challenging.

Renly laughs weakly. “The only time I get down on my knees is when I suck cock.”

The look in Loras’s eyes is so heretical Renly is surprised the sept doesn’t catch fire around them. 

“I prayed to the stranger,” Loras says, circling Renly. “I prayed that she might take me.” He steps forward until Renly has his back pressed to the Father. “But she never did. Because she’s a statue, just like all the others, and we make of them what we will.” He lifts Renly’s hand to his mouth and sucks two fingers deep. 

Renly struggles to control his breathing. He's sure there are very important questions he should be asking about what Loras has just said, but he can't form any. Across from him, the Crone raises her eyes to the ceiling.”What do you make of them?” Renly manages as Loras’s hands undo his jeans. 

Loras shrugs. “They present their faces to us so we’ll never see the true gods behind it all.” 

“There are-- _ true _ gods?” Renly braces himself as Loras slides his clothing around his hips. 

“Ice and fire,” Loras whispers. The look in his eyes is older than the sept; the slide of his tongue and the twist of his hand coil in Renly’s stomach like a serpent.

“Fire and ice,” Loras breathes, a hot, open-mouthed whisper on Renly’s skin. Renly can feel the marble weight of the gods’ carved eyes watching him, and he imagines they are jealous and greedy, imagines they long for such seduction, for an inner life capable of sweet lusts. The stained glass windows throw rainbows into Loras’s curls, and Renly tugs at them, smooths them, twists holy colors beneath his straining hand. 

Loras doesn’t pull away when Renly finishes, but when he gets to his feet, Renly sees that he hasn’t swallowed, either. Before Renly can fully make sense of what is happening, Loras walks over to the plaque on the wall and spits cum onto the pious, smirking portraits. 

Loras licks his lips and wipes the corners of his mouth primly as he turns back to Renly. “We’ve got perishables in the car.”


	7. Hoping For Something Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maudlin questions and bad dreams plague Renly again as he wonders just how far down the rabbit hole he's gone.

The drive-in theater is little more than a few mounds of dirt facing a screen that looks like a large canvas. Renly pays for their tickets and picks one of the mounds near the back to nervously park his car on. He looks over at Loras, who is tuning the radio to the dial the movie’s audio will be broadcast on, and feels, for the first time, slightly nervous in Loras’s presence. 

“Do you want popcorn?” Renly asks, already halfway out the door. “I’m going to get popcorn.”

Loras looks up at him, his eyes all easy innocence. “Sure. Get me a pop, too.” He laughs at the blank look on Renly’s face. “‘A  _ soda _ . But you’ll confuse the hell out of them if you don’t ask for a pop.”

Renly walks over to the concessions booth, head spinning a little. It’s not that Loras frightens him; he doesn’t believe Loras capable of harming anyone. But the farmboy at the pond with his end of the world kisses is the same man as the heretical dervish who sucked him off under the eyes of the gods; the young man with an eager, yielding mouth is the man who defiled a sept with a twisted, hateful smile. It's all too easy to believe, suddenly, that he is cursed. That he is a witch. That the gods have abandoned him and imprisoned him. That those who hate him are right to fear him, as though he can carry through with unimaginable, tangible threats.

But when Renly slides back into the car, his arms full of popcorn and soda-- _ pop- _ he can’t help but mirror the grin on Loras's face. He hands Loras his popcorn and drink and reclines his seat, smiling to himself as he watches Loras figure out how to do the same with his own seat.

The sunset has faded to night by the time the movie screen lights up; a picture flickers across it, jittering for a moment before steadying, and static interspersed with bursts of music and dialogue crackle over the car's speakers. Loras pokes uncertainly at the touchscreen on the car's dashboard, but nothing he and Renly do can make the audio come through clearly.

"Well, the movie is hardly the point of a drive-in," Renly finally says. Loras seems unaccountably disappointed, as though he's actually been looking forward to  _ The Monster of the Turquoise Swamp _ (as unimaginative and pointless a rip-off as Renly has ever seen). He scans through two sermons and four country stations before he gives up and lets the music play. "This fits the movie much better, anyway."

Loras laughs, watching the movie go on to the soundtrack of a man mourning his lost wife and the cowboy boots she took from him. He reaches over to take Renly's hand, and when their eyes meet Renly feels a fluttering in his stomach, the inverse of the dark, twisting serpent he had felt in the Sept.

"This is nice," Loras says. "I haven't been out here in awhile."

Renly raises an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you've been out here at all."

Loras tosses a kernel of popcorn in the air and catches it in his mouth, that clever tongue curling around it. "I came out for the grand opening," he says, distracted by another kernel. "It got run down fairly quickly, though, and then I didn't see much of a point." A kernel of popcorn bounces off his nose and he frowns.

Renly peers out into the darkness. The concession stand and the ticket taker's booth are weather-beaten, teetering on their foundations, their paint and siding peeling off. The movie screen itself billows free at one corner, and Renly can see rips in it here and there. He would have taken the whole establishment for at least three decades old, but then it seems this town has a penchant for wearing things and people down.

"Did they used to show better movies?" Renly asks, catching a kernel out of the air before it can land in Loras's mouth. Loras shoots him a wounded look and Renly delicately feeds him the kernel, taking a sharp breath when Loras's lips touch his fingertips.

"They got first-runs for awhile." Loras kisses Renly's knuckles, his eyes flickering to the console between them as though trying to work out how to get it out of his way. "We got  _ The Crow _ , I think, and  _ Jurassic Park _ ."

Renly doesn't have the heart to tell him that twenty-fifth anniversary rereleases don't count as first-runs. Instead he helps Loras climb into his lap. A light drizzle begins to fall as Loras curls up against Renly, his curls tickling Renly's chin.

"What would you do," Renly whispers, because between the rain and the dark and the giant monster on the movie screen he feels like he should be whispering, "if you could leave here?" Loras tenses. "Just for one day," Renly adds hurriedly.

"I'd like to see the ocean." A small voice, hesitant, an end-of-the-world voice. "Make a driftwood raft with you."

Loras would look glorious on the beach, Renly thinks. Speckled with sand, his hair golden and his skin bronzed, smiling like a man with the world at his feet. Renly wants to kiss him in the ocean, taste salt on his lips and sunscreen on his neck. He can see it if he closes his eyes, if he shuts out this dark car and even darker town.

"You'd like it," Renly muses. "Can you swim?"

Loras nods against his shoulder. "Dad taught us all to swim when we were little." He still sounds small, and faraway now, too. "Sometimes I still swim in the pond."

_ Taught us all to swim.  _ Renly turns the words over in his head. "You and who else?" he finally asks.

Loras raises his head to look at Renly, his confusion evident even in the dark. "Who else?"

Renly weighs dropping the matter, but curiosity gets the best of him. "You said your dad taught  _ all of you  _ to swim."

Loras stiffens. "Me and a few other kids from school." His tone says the matter is closed. "Would you want to go swimming in the pond?"

Renly nods at the movie screen, where a man in a cheap sea monster costume waves webbed hands at a screaming woman. "Are there any swamp creatures?"

"Mmm, a few," Loras hums. "But I can protect you."

Not for the first time, Renly gets the uncomfortable feeling that someone here actually  _ does _ need protecting; he just isn't sure who, or from what.

**

Renly expects Loras to take him to bed with the same fervor he had shown the night before, but Loras takes his time. Tonight he lights only two candles: the tall blue ones that flicker silver for a tantalizing moment. He strips down to nothing, his back to Renly, but it's not a deliberate tease; Renly can almost feel Loras thinking as he follows suit.

The blue candles are hypnotic. Naked, Renly takes a closer look at them. The flames flicker as he leans in close, but they don't seem to produce any heat. Frowning, Renly passes his hand through the flames, but they're--

_ Cold.  _ The cold of the ocean in your lungs, the cold of your hand reaching for help and finding no purchase in the sky. The cold of dirt and death and winter come too soon, a cold that leaves a deep, dark ache and phantom pains where it claims frostbitten limbs.

Renly yanks his hand away and holds it to his chest, his heart racing. He turns to see Loras watching him with a resigned look on his face.

"Battery operated," Loras says, nodding at the candles. "Little fans inside. They keep the room cool." 

The explanation doesn't sit right with Renly, but he can't think of an explanation that would. Candles don't burn cold. Candles don't feel and smell like death.

A warm hand runs up Renly's spine and Loras's arms slide around his waist. Loras nuzzles Renly's back as though he can burrow under Renly's skin, and Renly realizes with sudden panic that he already has.

Loras pulls back when Renly tenses. "Do you want me tonight?" He sounds as though he's resigned to rejection, as though he has to ask just to put his mind at ease.

"If you want me." Renly hopes he doesn't sound as helpless as he feels. This has gone on too long; he's scared of the insular little snowglobe he's been glued to the bottom of. What if he can't get out?

Loras hands Renly a bottle of lube and a condom, then positions them until he's lying with his back pressed to Renly's chest. He moans, a low and desperate sound, when Renly enters him.

The two blue candles seem to watch Renly, and he can't take his eyes off them as he rolls his hips softly against Loras's. Loras pushes back against him, sinuous as half-truths and sweeter than answers, and Renly swears the candles go silver and blue and back to gold with every noise Renly draws from Loras.

Unable to look any longer, Renly buries his face in Loras's hair and reaches around to touch him. Renly tries to lose himself in the slick, clenching heat of Loras's body, but his mind is divorced from his pleasure, and when it's over he's unsure what to say.

After a little while, Loras shifts beside him. "You can go, if you'd like." His voice catches and Renly wonders how long Loras has been shedding silent tears.

Renly rolls onto his back. "I said I'd stay a few days. Another night won't hurt."

"I'll make sure to give you a memorable good-bye, then."

The bed creaks as Loras stands. Renly watches him find his pile of clothes and go about dressing himself.

"I have to check on Margaery," Loras explains, and leaves the room before Renly can protest.

Renly stares at the two inexplicable candles for a long time before he falls asleep.

**

_ Torches. The faces behind them are still and white as statues, frozen as though they are a council of gods come to sit in judgment on this clear, merciless night. Tonight they are not singing; tonight they are placing chopped wood around a pole. Tonight they are building a pyre. _

_ Renly panics. He kicks and screams but his feet hit marble and his screams fall on deaf ears. One statue watches him with burning green eyes, and he knows he has seen the face of the Stranger. _

_ He doesn't want to follow her. He knows she has built the pyre for him; the Father had weighed his life, the short and long, and yet could spare him no love. _

_ There is no love here. Nor is there fear. Only hatred, and green eyes, and a pyre. _

A commotion downstairs wakes Renly from his nightmare and he scrambles around to find his pants before sprinting to the stairs. Below him Loras is folded over Margaery's kneeling form, and even at a distance Renly can see that he is shaking.

Olenna hovers over him, trying to get to Margaery, while Mace wrings his hands and darts fretfully from the door to his family. The screen door has been ripped open and something dark like blood has made marks on the white door frame 

"She's  _ hurt _ !" Loras cries, still cradling Margaery. "How did she get out? How did she get out this time?"

"You were too busy upstairs with your new toy to watch her," Olenna snaps, and looks up the stairwell. Her face twists when she sees Renly and she rushes at him with a speed he hadn't thought her capable of.

"Back upstairs!" she snaps, herding him into the hallway. "This is a family matter and you'd do best to stay out of it."

Eyes wide, head reeling, Renly lets Olenna back him into Loras's room and slam the door shut in his face. He swallows hard, wishing he could be at Loras's side, sending up a silent prayer to whatever god might answer that Loras wouldn't lose his beloved great-grandmother tonight.

Again Renly remembers what the Cider Hall gas station crowd had told him about a murderer roaming loose in the area; he doesn't even know how Margaery had gotten out, but he knows this town isn't a safe one.

Renly's brain spins as he tries to think of a way to get Loras--and hell, even Margaery--out of this house. A house where old, infirm women could wander out into the night and come to harm; a place where a vibrant young man slowly lost a grip on his dreams.

It's a moment before Renly realizes he's moved away from the door, and another moment before he realizes he's holding his palm over one icy blue candle. Tomorrow, he decides. If Margaery lives, Renly will steal her away with Loras.

He spends the rest of the night listening to the sound of sobs in the room at the end of the hall.


	8. A Ghost-Bloodied Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renly's time with the Tyrells is drawing to a close, and Renly needs to convince Loras to leave the farm with him.

Renly wakes with Loras in his arms and a throbbing head. He’s fairly certain something terrible happened the night before, but then Loras wakes, a sleepy smile on his face, and Renly wonders how much of last night was only a dream. All of his half-formed plans of escape wither as the sunlight through the window paints Loras’s naked body a stunning shade of gold.

“Rough night?” Renly asks. He considers running a hand down Loras’s leg, then remembers he’s about to ask about Loras’s injured great-grandmother. “Is … is Margaery okay?”

Loras nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “She got out back and one of the barn cats scratched her up.” He sighs heavily, his unseeing gaze on the ceiling. “She loves cats. We used to chase them around the barn. We found a litter of kittens once and tried to nurse them until their mother decided we were unfit parents.”

Renly decides it’s safe to rest his hand on the small of Loras’s back. He tries to picture Loras as a tow-headed little boy, letting his great-grandmother show him how to care for kittens. All he can picture is the present: a helpless, lost old woman and an equally lost young man. Maybe his soul had come apart when hers began to drift away.

“Tell me about her. How she used to be.” 

Loras sits up and nods, but he’s looking out the window. “Not here,” he says. “There’s one more place I want to show you before you leave. Someplace Margaery and I used to go to get away from it all.”

Renly and Loras take turns showering, then steal down the stairs, leaving the unnaturally quiet house behind. Renly guesses Mace and Olenna are still asleep, or seeing to Margaery, and he’s glad of their absence as Loras takes his hand and leads him behind the house. 

A large barn, its red paint peeling, sits a few hundred yards back from the house, and beyond it is a golden field of wheat swaying gently in the lazy breeze. There’s a twisting path through the wheat, a trail of dirt barely wide enough for Renly to keep to it. Everything is distilled to sensation: Loras’s hand, a warm pressure; the shifting shadows of the stalks of wheat; the sunlight painting everything with an impressionist’s sure brush. 

Renly wants to remember this. If he leaves without Loras and Margaery, he wants to be able to close his eyes and see Loras’s sun-streaked curls bobbing ahead of him and the blue sky promising freedom above.

He isn’t sure how long they meander. He’s half-convinced they’re still in a dream, a blissful dream that ends with eyelids blinking slowly open as they seek to recover what once danced behind them. Loras stays silent and steady, never pausing, never uncertain, and when they reach the clearing, Renly is nearly disoriented.

There’s a cottage in the clearing in a spot of land much too big for it; here and there, charred foundations hint at a structure that stood in this spot long ago, and as Renly studies the well-kept field around the cottage, he thinks he knows what it was.

A sept. A sept surrounded by a graveyard. 

“A little morbid, I know.” Loras flashes an empty grin. “This is where we’ve been burying our dead since … well, for as long as I’ve been alive.” He points at the cottage. “Margaery and I would come out here and make up stories for all the gravestones. We didn’t like that some people died with no one to remember them. So we remembered.”

Sadness rocks Renly back on his heels and he remembers the promise he made to himself the night before. “And who did you remember?” 

Loras leads Renly to three weathered gravestones near the edge of the clearing. “That’s Garlan,” he says, pointing at the stone on the right. “He was … he was very kind, and very funny. He went west and never came back. We don’t have his remains, but he has a stone.”

_ Garlan Tyrell, 1869 -- 1895, Beloved of the Warrior _

“That’s his wife, Leonette.” Loras runs his hand along her gravestone. “She died giving birth to a stillborn daughter.”

There’s a lost little boy talking about the dead as though they are family, and a wide-eyed young man who wants to see the ocean, and a man whose eyes shine profane at the mention of all that is holy; they are all the same man, this man with eyes so golden they put the fields to shame, and a smile so bright it makes the sun envious. This man with one hand on Renly’s heart and one foot planted firmly in a drowsy world of complacence and delusion. 

“Willas fell from a horse and his leg rotted,” Loras murmurs. He kneels and presses a kiss to the tombstone. “He loved the stars.”

_ Has anyone loved you?  _ The words stop behind Renly’s gritted teeth, trapped on the tip of his tongue.  _ Has anyone ever loved you the way you love the dead? _

Loras stands and brushes dirt from his jeans. “Wanna see the cabin?”

Better that than a tour of the fifty other graves Renly can see. He has no doubt Loras has made-up lives for each and every one of them, and the thought makes his stomach heavy with sadness. 

The cottage is well-made if a little threadbare. Inside, there’s only one room, but it’s cozy and quiet, and Renly is glad Loras has someplace like this to hide. 

Loras seats himself on a little pallet bed that takes up one wall and gestures for Renly to take the rocking chair in the corner. The wall above Loras’s head is covered with old-fashioned photographs; after all, when one has no future, why not try and cobble one together from pieces of the past? There’s a chest next to Renly’s chair, a crocheted blanket in rich, earthy shades of brown folded neatly on it.

“Do you crochet?” Renly asks, holding up the blanket.

Loras shrugs ruefully. “Margaery tried to teach me.”

“Loras …” Renly’s voice trails off and Loras gives him a wary frown. “Don’t you think … I mean … you could take Margaery away from here.” Loras opens his mouth but Renly just keeps talking. “We’ll find an assisted living home for her, a  _ nice _ one, and you could get an apartment right nearby to make sure she’s safe, and she won’t be able to--to be attacked by barn cats, and you won’t have to sit here and talk to graves, you can see the ocean, Loras,  _ please _ , it’s not  _ safe _ here.” Renly hadn’t meant to plead, but now he is, and he hadn’t meant to voice his concerns about Loras’s safety, but that's out of the bag now, too.

He expects Loras to rage at him, to leave the cottage and strand Renly in an oasis in a field of wheat. But Loras just shakes his head, his face scrunching as he tries not to cry. 

“I’m safe enough,” Loras whispers. “We’re all safe here.”

In a pretty little cage that looks like freedom. Renly crosses the tiny room, meaning to sit beside Loras on the bed, but the pictures tacked to the wall catch his eye. One hundred years of pictures, a Tyrell in every one, a smiling woman at the turn of the century tacked up next to a daughter who could have been her twin tacked up next to a solemn boy with slicked-back hair who looked like Loras. All those years of Tyrells, all those generations, frozen on this wall, on this farm.

Renly slumps down next to Loras on the bed and Loras slips an arm around his shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Renly Baratheon,” Loras says. He strokes Renly’s hair and Renly slumps against him, defeated. “But you don’t strike me as the savior sort.” He huffs a laugh. “Am I really that good in bed that you’re going to make me your Cider Hall souvenir?   


Renly snorts and elbows Loras in the ribs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I flatter myself vigorously and often,” Loras informs him with a sly grin.

“We might be thinking of two different kinds of flattery,” Renly laughs, sliding his hand up Loras’s thigh. “I like to flatter myself in the company of another.”

Loras pretends to study his fingernails and ignores Renly’s hand squeezing between his legs. “A pity you can’t find satisfaction just from watching yourself in the mirror.”

Renly growls and tugs Loras in for a kiss, the image of Loras touching himself with practiced ease in front of a full mirror making Renly’s stomach clench with lust. Renly pushes Loras back on the too-small bed, his hand working its way into Loras’s jeans, and bites gently down his neck to the collar of his shirt. The next few minutes are frenetic, punctuated by growls as Renly and Loras push clothing down and aside to bring themselves skin to skin. 

If the dead are watching, Renly thinks, thrusting against Loras, let them see this, and let them remember, when Loras is buried with them, that Loras was loved.

_ Loved _ .

When the afterglow fades and Renly drifts off with Loras tucked tightly into his chest, the word he thought in a fit of defiant passion sends shivers down his spine and plants an unease in his chest that doesn’t fade until he drifts off to sleep.

***

_ The Father’s face is stern and strong, and Renly spits up into it as unyielding marble arms hold him immobile. He sits and judges right from wrong, and Renly is  _ wrong _ ; everything about him is wrong, for his hands have touched what they shouldn’t and his mouth has uttered blasphemies against supple tongues, for he has sought temples in flesh not made to please him, and now the Father has weighed his life, the short, the long-- _

_ Not just his life. He screams and thrashes and writhes as a woman in a soiled white nightgown is shoved towards the pyre; it’s him they want, it’s him it’s him it’s him and she didn’t  _ know _ , of course she didn’t  _ know _ , and knowledge of sin is not sin itself but they are taking her they’re taking her oh gods don’t let them take her it’s all his fault it’s all his fault it’s all his fault _

and loves the little children.

_ Renly’s ears pop and torches blind him and the moon watches, indifferent, while he kicks the man who was a statue, the man who was a god, and feels no give. _

_ TheFather’sfaceissternandstronghesitsandjudgesrightfromwrongheweighsourlives _

the short.  _ a pyre. _

the long.  _ a house at the end of a long country road. a hundred years from the ocean. _

and loves the little children.

Renly is shaking when he jolts awake, throwing Loras off him. He can still smell smoke and hear singing; when he closes his eyes those torches rush in and he shrinks back against the wall, trembling.

“This land is uneasy here," Loras whispers, kneeling on the floor before him. “You’ve been having dreams.”

Renly takes a deep breath and nods. “That fucking  _ song _ ,” is all he can say.

“He judges wrong sometimes, you know.”

Daylight is fading fast through the window and Renly forces himself to stand. Right now he can’t imagine trying to navigate dark and rustling fields; suddenly the most important thing in the world is getting back to the farmhouse.

They’re already on the path through the fields when Renly stops. “You know the dream I was having.”

Loras shrugs and keeps walking, tugging Renly along behind him. “I’ve had it a few times. How far did you get?”

Renly nearly stumbles over his feet. “How far did I  _ get _ ?”

“Torches? A woman with green eyes?” Loras prompts. He never once looks back at Renly.

“A woman being taken to a pyre,” Renly snaps. “That’s how far I got.”

“The land keeps secrets and the land gives them up.”

Dusk creeps up around them, sticky and humid, but Loras doesn’t say another word.


	9. Shout at the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renly learns the truth. He was better off not knowing.

Renly hears the screaming before he and Loras are out of the field. Loras drops Renly’s hand and  _ runs _ , and Renly follows desperately, scared of the screams and scared of being left alone out here in the gathering dark.

But it isn’t dark. It isn’t dark enough to blind Renly to the strange car in the Tyrells’ driveway, and it isn’t nearly dark enough to blind Renly to the man lying limp in the gravel and the old woman with the burned face standing over him.

The man must have had a skull once, Renly thinks as he watches Margaery bring a heavy shovel down on a twisted, bloodied mass. The man must have had a face once, held up by that shattered skull, filled with that blood and brain matter spattered on his car and on the ground and on Margaery’s pretty white nightgown with the floral embroidery.

It isn’t dark enough, so Renly shuts his eyes, and the shovel whistles and thuds and whistles and thuds and that man must have had a skull once, surely, surely he had once worn a face, surely he hadn’t always been broken, mashed into the dirt.

A thud so loud it echoes brings Renly’s head up and snaps his eyes open and there’s a  _ tooth _ , there’s a bloody  _ tooth _ at his foot;ndidn’t this man once have a smile? Why is a piece of it at Renly’s feet? Where are the other pieces of his smile? With his skull and his brain and his face, of course: crushed into the driveway.

Margaery is screaming with a rage so primal it makes Renly’s bones ache, and with every downswing of the shovel she grows louder. Loras races for her and Renly tries to scream, to tell him to run, but then Margaery drops the shovel and falls into Loras’s arms. Her screams fade to harsh, desperate sobs as she and Loras kneel in the mess that was once a man and hold each other close.

_ Farmer Waters bludgeoned in his barn _ , a man with gnarled fingers told Renly a few days ago. A year ago.  _ A fella like you could get into a lot of trouble 'round here _ .

Renly drops to his knees and vomits. He hasn’t eaten all day and the bile burns his throat, but it won’t stop coming up and Renly feels as though he might drown in it. His chest heaves around the violent retching and his eyes burn, but when he closes them he sees a face sliding from a collapsing skull. 

A meaty hand on Renly’s shoulder jolts him back from the edge of panic.

“It gets easier,” Mace offers, as though he and Renly are offering one another platitudes at a funeral. “That should be the last of ‘em, though. No more Lannister descendents, see.” He pats Renly on the back as though Renly should feel comforted.

Over Mace’s shoulder Renly can see Loras still curled around Margaery, his shoulders shaking as they sob together. 

He forgets about Olenna until she’s right behind him, one hand darting in and out of his back pocket.

“It’s best you come with us,” she commands, and when Renly makes a desperate lunge for his keys in her hand she gives him a surprisingly hard knee to the gut that knocks the wind out of him. “We’re not going to hurt you,” she continues irritably, as though Renly hadn’t just witnessed a member of her family carrying out a gruesome murder. “You just need some time to think.”

“Just let me go,” Renly pleads. “I won’t say anything, I promise. I’m just passing through, I don’t want to get involved--”

Olenna sighs as she and Mace guide him towards the hulking barn. “I didn’t want you to get involved either, but age has not granted my grandson the wisdom I had hoped, and so we’re all in a bit of an unsavory situation now.”

_ Loras _ . He hadn’t seemed shaken by the sight of his sister’s rampage. How much does he know? How much does he condone?

Renly’s entire body begina to shiver as Mace and Olenna find lengths of rope and bind him to a stall door. His teeth chatter uncontrollably and he fights to take steady breaths, to keep the darkness and the images from overwhelming him.

In the end, he doesn’t see what knocks him out, but a deeper darkness drags him into another nightmare.

***

_ “Bring them out.” The woman is tall and blonde, backlit by a crowd in ragged shifts and carrying torches. “I have the High Sparrow on my side, and he has made a judgment.” _

_ Standing on the porch of a house Renly recognizes, dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown and carrying a lantern, Olenna Tyrell snorts loudly. “The High Sparrow held a trial in his head and divined the verdict in his own stool, you mean.” _

_ The blonde woman’s smile doesn’t reach her cold green eyes. “May I remind you, Mrs. Tyrell, who holds the power here?” She sweeps a graceful arm behind her to indicate the murmuring mob. “The whole town has made a judgment.” _

_ Olenna spits into the dirt. “Yes, yes, my dear, and what charges has the pious, virtuous Cersei Lannister come to lay at my feet?” _

_ The dream has never been so clear, but never has Renly been immobile; he cannot move and he cannot speak. Dread coils in his stomach, digging itself deeper and deeper as the scene plays out before him. _

_ “Your son stands accused of gross indecency.” The man who speaks is the same man whose picture hangs over the plaque in the sept. The High Sparrow.  _

_ Olenna rolls her eyes. “So many boys use your barn to commit gross indecency that I’m sure all your hay bales smell like semen.” _

_ Angry whispers roll through the mob and they begin to push forward, step by slow step. Renly’s heart races; he has tasted bits and pieces of what is to come, and he wants nothing more than to claw his way out of this nightmare. _

_ “Your granddaughter, as well,” Cersei Lannister says sweetly as Olenna turns toward the door. Olenna’s hand freezes on the handle and she turns with a heavy sigh. _

_ “My granddaughter smells like hay bales and semen?” Olenna laughs. “Why, then, I suppose she has much in common with you.” _

_ The scene escalates faster than Renly can follow; Cersei and the High Sparrow step aside to allow the mob to stream past. Olenna tries to bar the door, only to find herself shoved into the side of the house and left half-dazed. Renly strains at whatever holds him impotent, listening to crashes and shouts and watching Cersei’s indolent, almost disinterested, stare. _

_ Time seems to freeze when the mob’s first target is dragged from the house and shoved down the stairs into the dirt. He’s got a bloody nose and his clothing is ripped in a dozen places. He’s a blur of elbows and knees and bare feet, but he’s outnumbered. Outnumbered and still fighting. Pride swells in Renly’s chest as he sees Loras in the torchlight: his rage is so fierce that Renly feels it in his bones, feels it welling up inside him through the barrier between dreams and wakefulness. _

_ “Fuck you!” Loras spits. He aims a kick at one of his guards’ shins and gets a fist to the jaw for his trouble. He shakes it off as though it’s nothing and lashes out at another guard, elbowing him in the ribs and then trying to jerk out of his hold. “Whatever this brother-fucking bitch is feeding you, it’s a godsdamned lie!” He lets out a pained cough as he takes a knee to the groin and sprawls to the ground. _

_ “Do you just--” Loras whispers hoarsely, his eyes on Cersei Lannister. “--listen to every cunt three bottles deep before making your accusations?” _

_ The resulting blow makes Renly look away, but he still hears the crunch of ribs breaking.  _ Be quiet _ , Renly wills, knowing he has a better chance of stopping the wind from blowing. But to his surprise, Loras stills; everyone stills as a beautiful woman steps onto the porch, held between two large men. _

_ She’s wearing a simple white nightgown with floral embroidery around the hems. Brown hair cascades over her shoulders and down her back in loose curls. Her eyes are friendly and her smile coy, but Renly sees thorns in that sharp smile. _

_ “I demand to know what this is about,” she says, composed and authoritative. “What right do you have to pass judgment upon my brother?” _

_ “The gods give us this right,” the High Sparrow intones. “You brother has been found guilty of gross indecency--” _

_ “Yes, Margaery,” Cersei Lannister interrupts, and though Renly had known the young woman’s name in his heart, the confirmation of it sinks in his stomach like a millstone. “Gross indecency. A terrible crime, to be sure.” _

_ Margaery purses her lips as her brows knit together, and then a sudden realization lights her face. “Oh no! Oh, I’m afraid you’re all mistaken.” She waits until all eyes are on her before continuing. “It’s your father, Cersei. The man guilty of gross indecency. After what he did to his poor sister-in-law … Tysha, was it? But as sinners are wont to do, he died before our revered High Sparrow could render justice--” _

_ “Take her,” Cersei barks. “Take her and her brother.” _

_ “She hasn’t done anything.” Loras spits blood as he’s hauled to his feet. He looks desperately at Margaery, who bears her indignity with quiet grace. “Don’t hurt her, she hasn’t  _ done _ anything, she hasn’t done anything! _ _   
_

_ Renly is the only one who sees the pleading look Margaery shoots her brother as they’re carried into the woods. Renly drifts beside them, and any noise he may have made would have been drowned out in the chorus Renly recognizes from all of his nightmares before this. _

_ “The Father’s face is stern and strong,” the voices begin, and as before, Renly feels as though they are encasing him in a web. _

_ “I shot my fucking spunk all over the Father’s face!” Loras screams, and a broken cough through gritted teeth is sign enough that he has been punished, though Renly can no longer see him in the crowd.  _

_ “He sits and judges right from wrong,” the voices chorus, angelic and sweet, the tendrils they slide around Renly warm and electric. _

_ “He weighs our lives, the short and long.” Renly recognizes Margaery’s voice with a start, then sees her walking at the front of the mob, barefoot and seemingly unperturbed. She doesn’t waver until they enter the clearing and she sees the pyre rising from a cleared circle of earth. _

_ Only then does Renly see her swallow and only then can he guess how heavy that proud countenance must weigh. The mob files into the clearing around her, forming a circle with the pyre at the center. Loras is dragged to the front, facing the pyre, on his knees with his torso held up by two hulking men. _

_ “What is the meaning of this?” Margaery asks softly, her back to the pyre as she addresses Cersei Lannister. _

_ “You pretend to be such a devout, pretty thing,” Cersei smiles. “And yet you enable your brother in his sins. Rather than save his soul, you allow him to doom it.” _

_ “And in doing so,” the High Sparrow picks up, “you doom yours as well.” _

_ Renly sees the moment Margaery realizes she is in too deep; caught in a circle of men with torches, her brother captured and brought low before her, the pyre a grotesque steeple behind her, she takes a steadying breath.  _

_ “Then I shall do penance, as the gods require,” Margaery offers demurely. “My brother as well. If we must, we will join the sacred orders and live only to serve the gods.” _

_ Cersei’s chuckle is the most dangerous thing Renly has ever heard. It’s the last thing he hears clearly before chaos erupts. _

_ Five men rush forward to grab Margaery, carrying her kicking and screaming up to the pyre, where more men wait with ropes. Her eyes are wide with disbelief now, but not panic, not yet, and tears well in Renly’s eyes as Loras fights to drag himself and the men holding him across the clearing.  _

_ “You vile, scheming, evil  _ bitch _ !” Margaery screams at Cersei, but she never begs, never pleads, only holds her head high as torches are laid at her feet.  _

_ “The father’s face is stern and strong--” from solemn voices, inflated by piety “--he sits and judges right from wrong--” as the flames catch and flare “--he weighs our lives, the short and long--” _

_ “Help her!” Loras screams, but Renly is the only one who can hear him over the singing. “Help her! Anyone! Anyone, I’ll do anything!” _

_ The horror on Loras’s face is enough to keep Renly from glancing back at the pyre. He sees the firelight dancing off the tears in Loras’s eyes. _

_ “Anyone!” Loras screams again, his anguish a terrible, tangible thing. “If there is a single god with a fucking  _ soul _ , help me! Help her!” _

_ Silence. The grove goes quiet with a terrible slurk, like the last of someone’s bathwater swirling down the drain. Renly can see lips moving; the mob is still singing. The flames are probably still crackling. But where Renly was trapped in the twisted mockery of a hymn, now he is trapped in a chill that steals his breath. _

_ “Would you save her?” _

_ Every hair on Renly’s body stands up as a sharp, inhuman voice fills the clearing. Loras looks around with desperate eyes, and Renly knows he heard it too. _

_ “I would!” Loras shouts. “I would save her!” _

_ “I am the cold that drowns lost children in the snow,” the voice continues, grating like sheets of ice sloughing apart. “I am the cold that burns. I am the ice that is fire. I am the Great Other, whose true name cannot be spoken by mortal tongues. I am winter ravaging crops. I am forbidden and I am forgotten. You would serve me?” _

_ “I would serve you!” Loras screams. “Just save her! Fucking save her!” _

_ The voice sounds like a demon, but Renly has seen demons in this dream, and they all wear human faces, and when they speak for the gods they speak nothing but evil. _

_ What is it this god speaks? Is this the true god Loras had spoken of, back in the sept? _

_ “Raise your hand.” The voice softens to a cool breeze as Loras tugs one shaking arm from his captors’ grip and raises it to the sky. His eyes. Renly watches with horror and fascination as Loras's eyes turn a glowing, unnatural shade of blue. _

_ “You are a son of the long winter,” the voice croons. “I am the ice, and you are my child. Now. Put the fire out.” _

_ Stilted and wide-eyed, Loras flings his arm towards the pyre, and when Renly turns, bracing for charred flesh and melted features, for bone and ash … _

_ … the flames licking Margaery’s body freeze in a beautiful filligree, patterns like snowflakes etched upon them. They hang around Margaery for a moment, curling remnants of devouring heat, and then a strong wind rips through the clearing and shatters the ice like glass. _

_ Noise and time return to the world and Loras rises, brushing off his stunned captors and straightening to face the slack-jawed mob. _

_ “Your crops will die,” he whispers softly, nodding around the circle. “Your children will weaken from disease.” He locks eyes with Cersei Lannister, whose expression falls just shy of fear. “Your brother will take your life.”  _

_ Silence. Then a rustle, then a rush as the mob scrambles away, their song dead on their lips in the face of the unholy power Loras had summoned. Loras's eyes are brown again, his legs shaking. _

_ Renly watches Loras gently untie Margaery and set her on the ground; the icicle voice spears Renly’s head again, but he cannot make out what it says. The dream begins to fade, and Renly feels weary to his very soul as he watches Loras hold his sister’s head in his lap and weep over her. _

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a 70s b horror movie riffed by Mystery Science Theater 3000. I liked the premise, so I'm rewriting it. Hope you guess its name.
> 
> This fic is finished but for editing. I aim to update twice a week.


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